The Captain warned us we had until sunup to return. He expressed his opinion of the jungle most emphatically—he would not wait for it to come to him, nor would he venture into it. Not one of the native guides in the service of the Company was willing to join us. Oh yes, the Captain warned us. However, I know for a fact the boat did wait and the Captain, despite his fears, sent a rescue party after us. I know they searched for at least four hours, followed us down Knoll’s well marked game trail to the gateway. I heard their terrified shrieks when the rescue party found my traveling companions impaled upon bloody stakes high above the heads of their would-be rescuers, as if left there by giants. They had come prepared for the great cats, the fat constrictors, and the gangly predatory birds that lurk beneath the canopy, but never for a sight such as this.
I ramble. I am lost in memory. I am too far ahead of myself in the telling.
Continuity—continuity be damned.
The Heart of the Mother, or simply The Heart as Kamé calls it, is also the heart of my story. Had we simply admired The Heart when we stumbled across it… marveled at what we had found like well-mannered guests, gone back the way we came knowing ourselves privileged, the Children of the Forest would have remained within their shadows and wished us well. But prolonged exposure to civilization robs men of their wits as well as their manners. It is, as Chaat says, a double-bladed knife that requires a steady hand. Who among the four of us had a remotely steady hand in matters of propriety?
I met Knoll in the dingy lounge the first morning out. Tanned leather skin, glossy bloodshot eyes, bristly grey hair, a face much too full of moustache, he was slouched in a tall-backed wicker chair nursing a tumbler of gin, eyeing everyone else like a lazy cat might survey a family of squirrels. He greeted me by cursing the heat and the fact there was no ice to be had on the boat. The man was an absolute genius when it came to inventive vulgarities. A self-proclaimed adventurer, all old rumpled khaki, he had come along to kill big game. The thrill of the hunt, he rambled on reliving past conquests in a booming voice. Bragging rights, a possible fortune to be made from trophies, I thought, and definitely too much money in the bank already.
The boat’s engines struggled mightily, rotating the big water wheel that propelled us against the lazy current. Beyond the open shutters a flock of shore birds rose briefly, then settled back upon the branches like a sheet rippling in the wind. Knoll grunted, mopped his brow with a filthy red bandana. Crocodiles, pine-green armored logs, made way for the rusting hulk only to follow after should one of us fall off.
Horton joined us at the table later that same day. Muscular, eagle-eyed, dressed in impeccable white, he was every inch a Company man. And like all aggressive merchants, Horton was on the lookout for anything to plunder—lumber, gemstones, minerals, slaves. Horton had a commanding voice, like something from a pulpit. He could shift his tone and inflection, roar and whisper in equal measure to hold his audience’s attention, prevent anyone from ignoring him. He nursed the same whiskey all afternoon while he explained in excruciatingly boring detail how the Company had sunk millions into this exploration, had as yet seen little reward for their effort. He always drew these seemingly impossible assignments, he assured us with a knowing glance, a practiced nod. When no one else could turn a profit, they always sent for him to save the day.
I met Mossford on deck a week or so later. Wrapped in the uninviting coarse black robes of a lower tier churchman, he claimed to have felt the call, as he put it, to share the light with the natives. To me this self-serving expression of his faith was merely a euphemism for making the population malleable and open to exploitation. His knowledge of the various local peoples was nonexistent, limited to the most ludicrous derogatory clichés and his own dark, thinly veiled fantasies. He sprayed the deck with spittle whenever he became excited by the prospect of having his own personal flock beyond the reach of the bishops. Something was clearly not right about the man himself as well as his concept of the calling. Mossford’s eyes wandered whenever the cabin boy appeared and he never missed an opportunity to touch the lad.
And me? I was there in the name of holy exploration, hoping to find traces of a lost civilization among the dense forests, the perpetually cloud-enshrouded mountains, the winding black river. Fresh from the university, I was as bored as Knoll, as hungry for success as Horton, and as deluded as Mossford. I desperately wanted to find something—anything—unique, to establish what I considered to be real academic credentials; in short, to make a name for myself and scurry back home. The irony is I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations but I can never go home. My success has even cost me my name.
Chaat tells me I must now earn a new one.
It was Knoll who insisted on getting off the boat during the early stages of the repairs that morning. One of the main pistons had cracked with the noise of a rifle shot and the boat soon floundered among the crocodiles. We dropped anchor near the shore, and the Captain advised us in short order it would take all day and most of the night to replace the damaged piston. Knoll was already well into his daily ration of gin and was spoiling for a fight.
“I’ll feel better after I shoot something,” he growled.
The Captain was by no means reluctant to have the vulgar man off the boat, but insisted he be accompanied by at least two other able-bodied men. The guides squawked like frightened hens about the legendary forest people—they wanted no part of Knoll’s expedition. I was the first to volunteer. After all, I came here to explore.
Horton seized the opportunity for much the same reason. Whereas I courted fame, he sought fortune. The Captain had some brief words with Mossford in private before the priest reluctantly joined us. We were outfitted with a day’s food and water. Knoll carried an enormous bolt action rifle slung over his back and a large automatic pistol holstered on his waist with plenty of ammunition for both. There was a noticeable bulge beneath Horton’s jacket that suggested he, too, was armed. I brought along a rucksack containing my camera, maps, compass, sextant, notepad and a machete, should we need to blaze a trail. Mossford armed himself with a black prayer book and some well worn beads, muttering incomprehensible psalms to himself like an imbecile for the first hour bringing up the rear.
Without the drift of the boat to mitigate it, the morning heat was already insufferable. Our discomfort was much abrogated the farther we marched from the river beneath the sheltering canopy of the great trees. Thankfully the gnats were reluctant to accompany us, preferring the direct sunlight. We traveled almost due east, following what Knoll took to be a game trail. He marked a tree every hundred feet with a hunting knife lest we lose our way back. Our party stopped often to accommodate the ever-complaining Mossford, who was clearly not used to physical exertion. For the first hour or two there was a steady symphony of distant hooting and cawing, but word must have spread among the wildlife of our encroachment as their voices grew silent. Knoll drew the rifle from his back, pulled the bolt, whispering gleefully some great predator must be on the prowl near us. He wanted to find an ideal spot for an ambush, but nothing suitable presented itself.
Whereas the din of animal voices had been strangely comforting, the silence—save for the sound of our footfalls—began to weigh upon us, especially Mossford. The priest complained bitterly, begged Knoll to return to the boat, or at least reconsider pressing deeper into the forest. At first the adventurer admonished him to keep silent, which only encouraged Mossford to badger him further. Then Knoll slapped him hard, calling him a flabby pedophile, swearing if there was no other trophy to be had, he’d bring back Mossford’s head on a plaque for scaring off the game. I told Mossford he could wait here, resting until we returned in a few hours, but the notion of being left alone in the wild terrified him.
Kamé returns, bringing cool red tea in a bright yellow gourd. She looks at my journal, as if she could read my words, frowns.
“Have you reached the heart of the matter yet?” she asks.
I pat the ground next to me, asking her to stay.
“This is a task for you alone,” she admonishes me. She hands me the gourd and disappears into the shadows.
The Heart is the heart of the matter. And I was the one to find it. How do I explain The Heart? It is, at the very least, an artifact—one like no other.
Until recently I had small aptitude for languages. Finding The Heart changed that. Still, even with this new linguistic gift there are concepts that do not translate well. Chaat smiled approvingly, patting me on the back while the hunters bound Knoll, Horton and Mossford to makeshift stretchers. I was awed that I understood his words, knowing this was my first encounter with the Forest tongue. Chaat comprehended my bewilderment at once.
“It requires a simpleton,” he said, gesturing at The Heart, referring to me.
Even then I knew the word he used had a host of other meanings, depending upon its context. Not the least among them were fool, saint, child and sorcerer. That is the problem for civilized men—as a rule they have too much time to become bored and an inclination to complicate matters unnecessarily.
“Perhaps we need all be simpletons,” I answered him.
He nodded approvingly, smiled. It was the beginning of a mutually rewarding friendship.
Once again I digress.
As Kamé so aptly observed, my story is bound to that of The Heart of the Mother. The word Mother in question is also translatable into a host of terms, hardly synonymous for a civilized man—words including forest, world, spirit, and home. I found The Heart without looking for it, protruding from the soil beside the trail where the terrain began to rise steeply. Once I drew attention to the object, each of us saw it somewhat differently, or rather we each saw a dissimilar shape; we all saw it was wrought from the purest gold. And we all saw it as a container, as well, although Chaat was later quick to assure me not everyone makes that distinction.
To me The Heart was an enormous shallow bowl, as wide as a man is tall. Knoll saw it as a barnyard pail. For Horton it was a gem-encrusted chalice, the Holy Grail. And for Mossford it was a child’s thimble.
I was thirsty at the time, utterly disgusted with the warm brackish river water in my canteen when suddenly I looked to the side and there was this colossal bowl, like a collector at a natural spring. It peeked from the ground, brimful of what I knew beyond any doubt was cool sweet water. Acting completely contrary to my usual cynical nature I fell to my knees and drank deeply from it without hesitation.
Kamé told me later that was the very sign she had sought.
The others stopped, at first bewildered by my actions. Then Horton stepped in front of Knoll quoting the paragraph from the travel contract each of us had signed, the one which states all precious metals, artifacts and gems found by the undersigned as distinct from those legally purchased were automatically the property of the Company. I laughed and said if he could lift it, he could have it. He eyed me suspiciously, asking if I meant the chalice. Mossford, who had lagged behind drew closer to get a better look. He asked me how I had seen something that small from the trail. Knoll snorted with disgust, proclaiming we had all gone bonkers from the heat and reached with one hairy hand for the handle that only he saw.
And then I heard the sound of darts penetrating fabric, skin, muscle. Knoll, Horton and Mossford each dropped to their knees as the soporifics took control of their bodies. For a brief moment they hovered between worlds, as Chaat calls that state, their awareness struggling against sleep, their wide eyes growing dim. Then one after the other they pitched forward face down into the underbrush.
Much to my surprise, nothing had struck me.
The oldest crone I ever hope to see stepped confidently onto the trail, followed by a formidable young man wielding an ornate staff. Smallish people with tight bronze skin, they first looked up at me in wonder, then bowed their heads. Not wishing to offend, I bowed back, which amused them no end. From the shadows between the trees a dozen or so equally diminutive hunters, their faces painted black and red, their dark hair tied behind their heads, emerged brandishing blow pipes nearly as tall they were.
I sip the tea Kamé brought, savoring its subtle flavor.
Kamé is the clan’s historian. Hers is the voice that repeats their legends during times of ritual telling. She knows all the tales of their long journey verbatim, as these have been handed down from historian to historian since the beginning. She has told me much about the Forest Children, of their abiding relationship with The Mother through times of plenty and times of want; the prophesies made by long dead tribal shamans of great events yet to come. She also decides which tales, if any, of her own generation are to be added to the common lore.
Chaat had read the signs the morning the riverboat piston cracked, knew we were coming, when and where he could find us.
“Three protectors and a simpleton,” he confirmed once the others had been subdued.
It was Kamé, reciting the prophecy of the lost Heart, who had assured him we would be drawn to it. The Heart had been missing for ages, reduced to a myth. She bade her nephew bide his time until we led them to it. He agreed. They followed us soundlessly just beyond the path once we reached the gateway, stilling the forest voices near and far.
Again I have lost continuity. I have forgotten to explain the gateway.
A large corbelled arch, wide enough for four men to enter walking abreast in the middle of the jungle, had taken us all by surprise that morning. The gateway was wrapped in the thickest gnarled grey vines sporting fat deep green heart-shaped leaves veined with red and punctuated by slender white honey-scented flowers, plants that looked as if they had been there forever. The stone peeking through the foliage was a pale pink, pitted, the individual blocks fitted so snugly that one was hard pressed to find the joints between them.
I was overjoyed at the sight of it, announcing to the others that we had discovered the remains of a lost civilization and began taking pictures, marking the approximate spot on my map. Only Horton expressed any interest in the find.
“Look for relics,” he said, staring at me. “Relics fetch good prices in some markets. Hopefully we will find some in the underbrush.”
After that every mound and lump we passed we suspected was the remnants of some colossal building, although to be honest, we found no other stonework along that game path, and nothing that remotely qualified as a relic. Now the arched opening is blocked by three stout poles sunk deep into the earth bearing the weight of my former traveling companions fulfilling their new roles as protectors of the Children.
Kamé says that having drunk from The Heart, it is now my heart. And as such, my desires are its desires. She looks at me in awe, then turns away like a schoolgirl, tells me that’s why she’s growing younger. It is my turn to blush.
I ask her what she sees when she looks at it and she describes an object I take to be a key although her language has no such concept. When I explain it to her she smiles, repeats the word key as if she were tasting it, nods her head well satisfied with my interpretation.
I ask her what she would have of The Heart. She looks toward the foothills.
“I would see for myself,” she says. “I recite the stories by rote, but still I would see the truth of it. And if it can be made good, I would have it again.”
“Have what again?” I ask.
“What we have lost. What you are losing.”
“Memory?” I ask, confused.
“No. Our city—our civilization.”
“What happened to it?”
“The hand that held the two-bladed dagger was no longer steady. The body to which the hand belonged was impaled upon it. Only the Children of the Forest remain. Perhaps that is best. But still, I would see.”
“And The Heart?”
“In the beginning The Heart called to the Children of the Forest to build it an altar,” she says thoughtfully. “They built it a city, then gave the invisible Heart a form. So long as the form was tended by a simpleton, all was well. And so it remained until a foolish chieftain thought he could
manage The Heart without intervention. The Heart cursed him, and the Children who followed his example. The city and The Heart were both lost to us. But now that you have found The Heart for us—now that I have seen it—I want more than ever to witness the place of its taking form. There is a prophecy concerning these events. It is better if I do not tell more of it to you as you are the one that will bring it to pass.”
I look at the large mounds receding in the shadows. Boulders or buildings? I wonder.
In the beginning I kept track of my days among the Children by marking the ground beyond my hut with a sharp stick every morning. This amused Chaat no end.
“Why would a man who is beyond time mark time?” he asked.
I did not understand him, thinking his question was meant as a riddle, a koan, a right of passage. When his words made sense to me many weeks later, I smudged away those marks with my foot.
The creepers around The Heart recede daily. It is no longer partially hidden. Even the trees make way for The Heart. The ancient city beyond reveals itself by turns to the wonder of the Children who gather each dawn to witness the changes. Soon bright stars will adorn the night sky above the pale pink monoliths for the first time in centuries.
There is rudimentary writing carved upon the walls of some of the emerging buildings. The Heart’s gift of languages makes the meanings plain to me. I am teaching the elders to read.
Chaat takes it all in stride. So far, he avers, the omens have all been excellent.
Kamé is flattered that my heart is her heart, wary that I will try too hard to please her.
“Do only as your heart bids you,” she advises. “Do not seek to direct your actions.”
The anguished screams of the protectors have reached us through the shadows only once to warn us of approaching danger—danger averted with the departure of the river boat. But their constant moaning is another matter altogether as the sad sound finds us from time to time. Nothing will eat them, not the cats, the snakes, the birds, the ants. It pains me to leave Knoll, Horton and Mossford more dead than alive in eternal torment, but such is the will of The Heart.
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